Face Down
by sakuyavalentine
Summary: One-shot. Eliza.


**Face Down**

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"…do you feel like a man  
when you push her around?  
Do you feel better now  
as she falls to the ground…"

- "Face Down" - _Red Jumpsuit Apparatus _

.

She told herself today would be different as she raised the peach-hued sponge to her face. It was not yesterday - the things that had happened were unchangeable now, though sometimes, many times, she wished that were not true - nor was it the hazy tomorrow that could be either brighter or so much darker. It was today, and today was a life within itself.

After the foundation was set, every deficiency hidden behind a thick curtain of perfection, on went a sweep of blush and a deep shade of plum that the salesman said brought out the intensity of her eyes. Pins held her hair in a partial up-do, curls framing her face like a wild mass of spun gold, and the laced corset - the kind that made the simple task of breathing very nearly impossible - enhanced the wonders of her figure.

She looked beautiful, and the scrutinizing eyes of society would turn in her direction as she walked the cobblestone streets of London, a lone girl dressed so well. Women would gossip, call her harlot and a mischief-maker because they were jealous. Men would wonder if her reputation was one of validity, outwardly disgusted by such a lowly display, inwardly pleased - calculative minds would conjure ways to slip past watchful wives and competitive nobles in the hopes of earning her company - but their opinions mattered little to her.

Though conversation with established gentleman came as easily to her as reciting her name or playing the piano, she was most certainly not a harlot, but to call herself an angel was quite the stretch. Like most, there were yesterdays she would take back with the chance, and tomorrows she hoped would never come, but she didn't bother bring such things up. It wasn't as if anyone would believe her anyway.

With an air of finality that could only come from hours of careful preparation, she tugged on the frilled scoop of her dress, the kind that showed just enough cleavage to entertain but continued to leave room for curiosity, and tucked her diamond-embossed clutch beneath her arm. Venturing towards the front door, she said that she would be out late, but not to wait up, the volume of her voice loud enough to claim, later, that she should have been heard but with the intent that no one did.

It must have been too much of the former because a pair of brown eyes whipped up from the newspaper with its ironed pages and sewn spine to look at her accusingly.

Suddenly, heart hammering and palms sweating, she took a step closer and waved the clutch in front of his face. "I'm just going out for a drink. That's okay right?"

Looking back to his paper, he said replied calmly, "We have some here you can drink. It's better quality than that overpriced, diluted liquor they'll sell you at whatever run-down old pub you're bound to go to, to pick up some lazy gentleman with a fat purse."

She shook her head - too fervently perhaps? "I'm not going to meet anyone this time."

He made an odd sound, something like a laugh but with the duration of a snort, trying without much effort to hide his doubt. Slowly, he rose from the over-stuffed armchair, the news in the paper a lot less interesting than it had been only moments ago, and smiled kindly until the maid in her black and white uniform disappeared upstairs with an armful of fresh linens. His grip was firm on her wrist, as though he were afraid she'd turn and run away. Or perhaps, it wasn't fear that made him hold so tightly, at least, not his own.

"Now, you and I both know that's not true. You cannot go anywhere in public without attracting attention and as my fiancée, I cannot simply sit at home and allow other men to look at you in such a way, now can I?"

With every word, his tone sharpened like a knife to her throat. His smile faded to be replaced by an expression a little more sinister, the type an adult wore as they revealed the truths to children that Santa Clause was nothing but a fictional character and magic was make-belief.

She tried, but knew she was failing miserably, to hide the tremble in her voice and the tears that filled her eyes. She couldn't have her makeup run now, or she really wouldn't be able to go outside.

"Everyone knows the type of woman you are, spending your time at lavish parties and smoke-filled taverns while you sell your filthy body to the highest bidder," he continued, pulling her arm until it was at such an awkward angle she thought it might snap at the joint. "You're the misfit of your family, a stain upon their good name. I wonder why your brother didn't do away with you a long time ago; surely you're just a burden to him. I heard you were the reason he can no longer walk properly."

Her eyes turned to his, tears running down her cheeks, washing away the carefully placed makeup and thus pulling the curtain aside from the purple and blue badges he'd awarded her with before. Her look became one of anger, though hers was of no comparison to him at his worst.

"I know my brother hates me. It's as much a mystery to me as it is to you why he keeps me around. He simply scolds me, though not to the degree as you. Perhaps that's why he allowed this union. He knew you could tame me with more force than he."

Taking a fistful of sunlight curls, he pulled until her neck ached and her teeth ground together. "You should feel grateful, then, that my parents agreed to this arrangement; that I was kind enough to agree to marry such an insolent girl. A tart like you doesn't deserve that much."

He seemed, no, she was certain that he enjoyed the sight of her swollen sapphire eyes and slightly raised scars, the heavy breaths and quivering cries that erupted from the back of her throat like a homeless pup with a broken paw, the pain that she tried to hide, tried to brush off and claim didn't hurt, as if that would be enough to make him stop.

It didn't matter if she stayed indoors, if she remained obediently silent like a good wife should. She wasn't the type to sit idly with her hands folded in her lap and sip a cup of earl grey, nor would she be good enough, perfect enough, even if she had the desire to. He was like a detective, always searching for another reason to reprimand her, another flaw to bring into light.

As far as she was concerned, it was a double-ended sword. Why not make the most of what little freedom she had? Even if it came few and further between. Perhaps, if she searched as hard as he did, she might become the princess in the fairytales her mother used to tell her as a young girl, and ride into the sunset with a prince dressed in silver armour upon a mighty steed.

"You look repulsive. Your eyes are red and your makeup has smudged. You'll be the talk of all London if you go out in that state. Wash it off and ready yourself for dinner. The cooks are already preparing it." With a swift back-hand that left a considerable mark on her cheek - and a welt where his ring found bone - she tumbled to the ground with an impressive _thud_, hiding her face in the folds of her dress when the butler entered to investigate the sound.

She was all right, he said, his wicked smirk once more replaced by a mask of innocence, and she agreed quietly before picking herself up and hurrying back to her room, a private place where she could cry without reservation until she would be forced to put on a mask as fake as his - on again would go the foundation and blush, the shadow and mascara in degrees only a true harlot would wear, but all that was enough to keep her secret as one - and pretend that all he hadn't struck her again, hadn't left a mark she would come to hate with such fervency, hadn't created another fracture line in her already unstable self-image.

Sitting before the mirror again, she glanced out the window, unable to see the figure, his three legs rigid - though one inevitably so - watching from the shadows. It would be foggy again tonight. Soon darkness would settle in, Big Ben would toll and the streets would become a dangerous place, silent in all but the distant clip-clop of hooves on the street from cabs invisible in the gloom.

And yet, she'd always enjoyed the night. The sign that a day had ended, a chance to begin anew tomorrow. Perhaps her tomorrow would be different. It probably, and likely, wouldn't, but quite possibly it might. After all, tomorrow was a new day, and each day was a life within itself.

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**Disclaimer:** Eliza and Colin are property of Kaori Yuki.


End file.
